


Tribute

by clarityhiding



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Crossdressing, Heterochromatic Jason Todd, JayTim Week 2018, M/M, sort of? I guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 00:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16608584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarityhiding/pseuds/clarityhiding
Summary: Bitter experience has taught Tim what happens when barbarians' demands aren't met, the destruction and bloodshed. The unrecoverable loss.He does his duty to his people and offers up tribute.Or: The JayTim Viking AU where Tim tries to be clever and it bites him in the butt when he plays his part too well.





	Tribute

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 3: Viking/Bare Skin of JayTim Week, it's the promised first of my three viking fics! If you've read [On the Broad Loom of Slaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15730716), parts of this will look familiar because that technically spun out of this one, though they are two very separate AUs. 
> 
> Beta'd by chibi_nightowl, who is a champion!

The men from the north come during the summer months, swooping in from the sea and taking everything of value they can lay their hands on in the short time that passes before the villagers can muster anything more than basic defense. Year after year this happens, the village relatively defenseless as its lord and his men remain in the east where their liege lord has summoned them, fighting the infidels. Finally, a year arrives when the village has nothing left to give, having been stripped of that wealth which can be easily transported by other raiders earlier in the season, and the newest wave of marauders come straight up to gates of the keep, their weapons ringing against the bosses on their shields as they demand tribute from those cowering inside.

Tim is just a scant seventeen summers old, but he knows his duty to his people, knows that he cannot give into the demands of the northerners, that they must not learn of the food stores squirreled away behind the keep's sturdy walls. That food is the only thing that will keep his people from starving come winter, and with this year's poor harvest, it is more precious than gold. He also knows from experience just what happens when the demands of the barbarians fail to be met, the destruction and bloodshed.

The unrecoverable loss.

It is imperative that he offer the invaders some sort of prize, something that will not cost his people dearly, something that can be sacrificed for their safety.

He explains all this to the haphazard steward of the keep as they stand beside the inner gate. "I do not like it," the old woman grumbles. She is actually the previous steward's widow; her husband was cut down while defending against the raiders some two summers past. "One of your stepmother's ladies could easily take this task."

"And what would you have me tell the families and who entrusted them to us? That I was too much of a coward to do my duty and instead sent their daughters away to what would most probably be their death?" he demands.

"You are not your father. It is not your responsibility to atone for his actions," she chides. Before necessity forced her to take up her husband's tasks, she was his one-time childhood nursemaid, the one who comforted him through his mother's death and other losses. She, more than any other in the keep, is sure to realize what is truly weighing on his mind at a time like this. "Do not be in such a hurry to seek the afterlife, my lord."

"But how will I ever face him if I fail here?" he whispers, both of them pretending he means his long-absent father. He clears his throat and squares his shoulders. "Nay, it is my duty to keep all of you safe and sound," Tim reminds her. "I cannot ask anyone else to make this sacrifice. I have left a letter for my father, explaining the situation. He will not hold any of you accountable." He does not speak aloud the fear they all feel, that the Lord Drake has likely perished in battle in some foreign land.

"Still don't like it," the steward gripes, but she gestures for the stableboy to help her lift the heavy cross bar, allowing the gate to swing outwards just enough for Tim to slip through.

"What's this?" the largest of the raiders asks, the words queerly accented, but easy enough to understand. He is tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair lightened by sun and sea breeze, the muscles of his massive arms straining at the cloth of his shirt. Tim does not doubt that this is the leader of these barbarians. 

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Tim steps forward, willing himself not to turn and flee as he hears the gate close shut behind him, heavy and final. Backwards is no longer an option. "Those who came before you have stripped this land of all its riches save one. Still, Lord Drake does not wish to quarrel with such fine warriors, so he begs that you accept his last treasure as tribute and bother this land no more."

"Since when are scraps and leavings treasure?" the chieftain demands, gesturing to the small bundle Tim clutches to his chest.

"You misunderstand," he says, willing his voice to remain clear and strong, for it to not crack from nerves or pressure. "I am the tribute."

The chieftain eyes him up and down, tilting his chin up to study his face. "Your lord is soft in the head if he thinks a pretty face is enough count as treasure."

Tim flushes, unused to such compliments. "Which is why he has sent you his only daughter instead. My lord."

 

* * *

 

Tim does not expect the fiction of his sex to last for longer than it takes for the raiders to return to their ships (long, strange things, with brightly-colored sails and carved prows, nothing like the little boats used by the village fishermen), but the invaders are strangely respectful of their new acquisition. Only their chief seems well-versed in the language of Tim's people, but the warrior he sets to keep watch over Tim is deft at communicating via pantomime, and proves an excellent conversationalist, though neither of them speaks aloud after Tim's first few attempts.

At the ships, the warrior tucks Tim in among chests full of gems and jewelry, sacks of grain and other foodstuffs, and one very placid-looking milch cow. It's more than a little disconcerting to watch the warrior's helm come away at last, revealing a delicate, feminine face, foreign in appearance, with dancing black eyes. The warrior smiles at Tim's startled look, gently patting his cheek before slipping away to take her place at the oars. A glance around the boat reveals a number of the raiders to be women. Clearly, Tim's assumption that he might cause his captors to underestimate him by pretending to be of the fairer sex was a faulty one.

It is possible he is in a lot more trouble than he initially thought.

 

* * *

 

It would seem that while the raiders frequently bring back captives, he is the only one this time around. It makes the journey back to the raiders' homeland long and boring, since he still has no one to talk to. On the third day, he digs into his bundle of belongings and extracts spindle and wool. It takes a few tries to get the hang of using the spindle on a moving vessel, but before long he has the way of it, which means at least his hands are occupied even if his mind isn't.

At one point, the chieftain notices what he's doing and smiles, looking pleased. "I didn't think your people let their princesses engage in useful work."

"I'm not a princess," Tim snaps back before he recalls himself. "I mean. My father is a minor lord. Everyone is expected to do what they can to help out. As a child, I was not particularly strong, so my nursemaid taught me spinning to allow me to help in my own small way." Like all good lies, it is founded mostly in truth—he knows women's work because illness plagued him when he was younger, though his nursemaid taught him handicrafts more to keep him still and occupied than any other reason. Most nobles wouldn't dream of allowing their boy children, let alone their heirs, engage in such demeaning work, but anything that could keep Tim engaged as he recuperated from his childhood illnesses had been seen as a boon by his parents.

"Respectable, important work. Threads bind us all together; it takes a steady hand to create thread able to endure all the hardships life throws at us," observes the chieftain. Leaning forward, he tugs experimentally at the thread already wound around the spindle, testing it. "You spin a strong thread, little dragon. Can you weave it as well?"

"When I have a loom to string it on. Mine were all too large to take with me."

"If the cloth you weave is as fine as what you wear, it is no wonder that your father treasured you so. I'm sure he was counting on you to bring a high bride price."

"Oh, well." Tim gulps, keeping his eyes cast downwards as he runs his fingers over the thread to check for lumps. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

 

* * *

 

Though it is still late summer only just edging into autumn, the weather soon turns cooler as the raiding party sails northward. The ocean breeze bites at exposed skin, and Tim's mantle, warm enough for his own land in all but the coldest months, offers little protection. He hunkers down against the deck, trying to find some shelter amongst the bounty. It helps to press against the warm solidity of the cow, but not by much.

One of the warriors seems to notice the change in Tim's behavior, barking a question to the chieftain. The chief glances in his captive's direction and frowns as he rumbles a response. Query answered, the warrior leaves off rowing to hop to his feet, hurrying over to dig through the pile of loot until he unearths a gorgeous fur, soft-looking and a rich dark brown in color. He smiles at Tim and holds out the fur.

Tim eagerly takes it, wrapping it around his legs and lap, burying shaking fingers in the fur. It's just as soft as it looks. "It's a beautiful prize," he says, though he knows the warrior won't understand him. "Thank you for the loan of it." He doesn't doubt the fur to be the warrior's greatest treasure from a summer of raiding, and is touched that the man is willing to share it.

The warrior grins, blue eyes dancing, and he pats the veil covering Tim's head while saying something in his northern tongue. Tim isn't certain, but the gesture is such that he's reminded of a boy from the village who was always keen on protecting those smaller than himself, affectionately protective of all the other children as if they were his own siblings. Perhaps Tim reminds this warrior of a younger sister left back wherever these barbarians come from. Even if that's not the man's intention at all, he can't help but feel put at ease by such a familiar, human gesture.

Then the warrior draws away, moving to speak in hushed tones with the chieftain, the two of them stealing obvious glances in Tim's direction every few words, and that momentary feeling of calm quickly disappears. The barbarians, it would seem, are already making future plans for their unexpected treasure. Only a foolish man would allow himself to be distracted by an act of apparent kindness, better to steel his heart against weakening in the face of any such future overtures and leave the past to the distant mists of memory.

 

* * *

 

Women, children, and even a few men all pour out of buildings and fields to greet the returning warriors as the ships pull to shore. Tim's guard is back at his side, joined this time by the blue-eyed warrior. The warrior speaks familiarly with the guard, the woman responding with hand gestures that are nowhere near as easy to discern as the ones she uses when communicating with her charge.

The pair seem familiar enough, the warrior making what must surely be jokes, if the way the guard responds with laughter is anything to go on. The laughter is the only sound Tim has heard from her this entire journey, and no wonder. During their weeks of travel in such close proximity, he observed that his guard's silence is not by choice. At some point in the past, someone cut out her tongue.

He shivers, drawing the fur more tightly around his shoulders as he follows his captors to the large structure in the center of the little settlement. The chieftain is already there, speaking with a seated woman, her hair covered but for a long braid of a bright fire-red. The blue-eyed warrior pulls away from their little trio, waving his arms and shouting as he runs forward, sweeping up the redheaded woman in an embrace so passionate, Tim finds he must glance away for modesty's sake.

Beside him, the guard laughs softly, then claps his shoulder and draws him towards the chieftain even as the redhead distangles herself and pushes the warrior away with what sound like chiding tones. The guard gives Tim a little shove forward, then grabs the arm of the warrior and drags him back towards the boats, quickly disappearing into the throng of people gathered there.

"Ah, little dragon," the chieftain says, his eyes dancing with some sort of private amusement. "Allow me introduce you to my daughter-in-law, Barbara. She will see to preparing you for tonight."

"Why? What's happening tonight?"

"My younger son gains a wife, and I gain another daughter, one who is skilled and whose father only demanded a bride-price of peace," the chieftain says jovially, clapping Tim on the back before running back to aid in the unloading of the ships.

"…wife?" Tim asks faintly. Sure, it was always a possibility, but he somehow never thought it would actually _happen_. At least, not so quickly.

"Don't worry," Barbara says, resting her fingers lightly against the back of Tim's hand. "I suspect you'll like it here. Doubly-so if your father is the sort to bargain away his only daughter while he hides safe behind the walls of his keep." Her words only bear the lightest of accents, and that closer to the speech of villages only a few days' ride north of Fief Drake, nothing like the chieftain's thick and rolling burr. 

"You're from the south," Tim says, unwilling to comment on her words for fear of giving away too much of the truth of the situation.

"Aye, from a freehold where my own father is burgermeister, though I came willingly to the north after the chieftain's eldest son pitched woo to me, rascal that he is." She smiles at the words, though, and Tim's cheeks grow hot at the memory of just how enthusiastic she was about greeting the man who must surely be her husband.

"Somehow I doubt my father had marriage in mind when he sent me to meet the men at our walls," Tim fibs, though it is not entirely a lie. Considering how young he was when his father was called away, he doubts much of anyone in Fief Drake had marriage in mind when it came to Tim.

"Oh, certainly. I'm sure that's why he sent the comeliest lady in his keep with nary a guard to defend her. No, you are lucky. Had you stayed home, he would have no doubt married you off to some hideous blowhard nearly thrice your age for a high price indeed. Men who hide behind women's skirts when there is fighting to be done are the worst sorts of cowards," Barbara says with a sneer, spitting in the dirt of the yard. "Here you will have a husband who will respect and cherish you."

"A stranger," Tim says, because of the warriors he knows only the chieftain, the woman who guarded him, and the blue-eyed man who is Barbara's husband.

"The men of this clan are different than most. After other raiders ruined me and left me for dead, none in the freehold would court me despite my father's station. They saw my affliction as well-deserved and a sign that I was cursed for being the sort of woman who is too strong of will," Barbara says, moving away from the door. For the first time Tim sees she isn't merely resting, but rather sitting in an ingenious wheeled chair, one she is able to propel by means of handles on the wheels.

"Oh, I hadn't realized—I mean, I—"

"Hush, don't worry. We're all misfits and broken, lost souls here," she says, waving off his fumbling condolences. "I saw Cassandra was set to guard you. I'm sure you noticed her reticence."

"Her tongue—"

"Was removed by her father, who thought by silencing her thusly he could keep her from growing a spine like her mother and one day leaving him. The chieftain rescued her and adopted her as his own daughter, seeing something wonderful where others only saw something weak. Now she is one of his fiercest warriors, unmatched in combat." Barbara smiles. "Now, come. You must be bathed and otherwise prepared for the wedding."

"Getting rid of the dirt of travel would be nice," Tim says, at a loss as to how else to respond.

 

* * *

 

It takes some doing, but Tim eventually persuades Barbara that he's perfectly capable of cleansing himself and that the luxury of a private bath would do much to put him at ease after all that has happened over the last few weeks. She still insists on remaining right outside the door to the bath house. At first, he believes this is to ensure he can't run away; once he sees the bathing facilities, he quickly revises his opinion. Pools and steam and who knows what else; he has to ask for her to relay careful directions through the closed door on what he's expected to do.

"Normally, we'd spend all day preparing the bride," Barbara says once she deems Tim sufficiently instructed.

"I just can't understand why your chieftain should want me to wed his son," Tim says, squinting against the steam from the hot rocks he's just sprinkled with water. "He'll get no dowry from my father, and I'm sure there are plenty of women from other clans who would be more than willing to marry the son of a chief, even a younger one."

"Ah, well. Bruce has brought him to the Thing for four years running, hoping for marriage offers, but there are many who view him as god-touched and would not wish their daughter bound to such a man, no matter who his father is."

"Is he? God-touched, I mean?" There are those in the world who are, he knows, though he's never had the privilege of meeting one.

"Nay, he simply has a queer look about him—a shock of white hair despite his youth, plus similar oddities—and that makes some people nervous. Though no doubt the rumors will only spread more now, after what happened at the start of summer."

"Dare I ask?" Feeling he's perspired more than enough, Tim climbs into the tub of cold water and begins the laborious process of rinsing himself of dirt and sweat with the harsh soap he's been told he mustn't fail to use.

"We were attacked by another clan before the warriors set out for the season. Though we were able to fight off our attackers and defend our home, he suffered injuries severe enough his father felt it unwise to allow him to travel."

"A strange man, your chieftain. Caring more about a man's health than his honor." It also explains why Tim has no memory of a warrior matching Barbara's description from the journey north. Climbing out of the tub, he grimaces as he sets about vigorously drying himself with an old, soft blanket no doubt left next to the bath for that very purpose. So his future husband isn't to be one of the many warriors he's vaguely become acquainted with but rather a complete stranger instead.

"A loving father," Barbara corrects him. "And a careful strategist. Why take away all our protection when there is danger of an attack at home? Our _læknir_ is knowledgeable in the best of the eastern healing practices, and he was able to help in the fields before the month was out." In a teasing tone she adds, "He may not be fully recovered, but he is certainly fit enough to perform adequately in a marriage bed."

"Oh, I. I don't know if." Dressing, Tim fumbles with his belt as he strives to fasten it over his kirtle. "I was not planning on marrying any time soon. I'm afraid any man who marries me will be… rather disappointed in the bedroom." A mild way of putting it, to be sure.

"Really? I had thought you already wed, what with how you cover your hair. It would not be the first time Bruce rescued a woman from an unhappy marriage and an unpleasant husband."

"No, it was… The healer said I had an inflammation of the brain, and my head must be shaved in remedy. I wear the veil to hide that my hair has not yet recovered," Tim fibs. It isn't quite a full lie, since the village healer did do and say as much when he was young and frequently ill, but his hair is back to a respectable length now… for a man.

"Ah, well. Your bridegroom is sure to understand, and you can hardly wear your bridal crown over a veil," Barbara comments, turning her chair to face him as he exits the bath house. Apparently noticing the way he shivers when the ocean breeze hits flushed, still-damp skin, she passes back the fur he left with her earlier for safekeeping.

"You know," she says thoughtfully, "I don't think I ever did learn your name. Bruce called you little dragon, but something tells me that isn't what your parents named you."

"Hardly. My father is lord of Fief Drake. I expect that's why the chieftain calls me that," Tim says, somewhat flustered. A name? The rest of these barbarians may not recognize southern names, but Barbara will certainly know if he tries to pass 'Timothy' off as a lady's name. "My name is, ah. Timothea. Tim, for short."

"Huh. I hadn't heard Lord Drake had a daughter. Just a son, before his wife passed," Barbara says.

"Oh, well. He remarried you know," Tim mumbles. "These things happen."

 

* * *

 

The primary problem with the whole situation is, of course, that Tim is not actually a woman. While it would seem the barbarians he's ended up amongst are quite different from the usual sort that have ravaged Fief Drake in the past, that doesn't make his current situation any better than it was when he woke up this morning. He's still among strangers, among enemies. He's still a captive. But on the plus side, he's the captive of people who seem to prize courage and fighting skill.

When he is led to the large building, the chieftain geets him with a cheerful, "Ah, good, now the festivities can begin!"

Tim crosses his arms and puts down his foot. "I have agreed to no marriage, nor has my father."

The chieftain frowns, raising an eyebrow. "You were given to me in tribute. What I choose to do with you is up to me, not you, little dragon."

"I may have been given to you, but I am the child of the lord of Fief Drake, and I will not be given in marriage to someone I have never met."

"Be that as it may, you have no say in this matter," the chieftain snaps, his jovial nature apparently wearing thin at last. "You are _my_ property, to dispense with as I see fit."

A young man standing beside the chief, content to remain silent in the shadows up until this point, hesitates, catching the chieftain's sleeve and saying something in the rolling, northern tongue. His forelock is a startling shade of pure white, and Tim realizes with a start that this is the young man Barbara spoke of. Tim's intended husband.

Whatever, the man is of no consequence to Tim, not if he does this right. "If you think me worthy of your son, surely you realize I deserve more dignity and respect than a common slave. The least you can do is obtain my father's permission for this union." He glares at the chief, daring the man to contest him.

"He gave his permission when he gave me you!"

"He had no choice, that is hardly permission!"

All around them, the long room falls silent as individual conversations stop and bystanders take notice of the small southerner daring to argue with their chief. Though it's unlikely many of their onlookers have more than an inkling of what's being said, Tim doesn't doubt that this kind of challenge reflects poorly on the chieftain's ability to lead.

The chieftain's eye flick about them, taking in his silent followers. "Fine," he grits out. "How would you solve this matter?"

"Where I come from, if there's a disagreement over the disposal of a lady's hand in marriage, it is customary for both suitors to engage in combat, with the winner taking the lady. If the lady's family opposes the match, her male kinfolk take up her cause," Tim blithely fibs, crossing his fingers that Barbara is ignorant enough of the ways of the nobility to take him at his word.

"Your male kinfolk are weeks away. The _gyðja_ assures me that today is an auspicious day for a wedding; the mead is plentiful and ready for the bridal cup and the honey moon. I will not postpone this marriage months just to fetch your kin to settle a matter that is already resolved."

"I never asked you to," Tim says, swallowing down his nervousness. "I will fight for the right to dispense my own hand as I see fit."

The chieftain's eyes light up and he laughs, saying a few words in his own tongue to the son standing beside him. Then he makes a sweeping gesture to encompass the room as a whole before shouting something, garnering a cheer as the crowd stands and moves toward the door as one. "Come," the chieftain says to Tim, "we will take this matter outside where there will be space for the two of you to move and the rest of us to watch. One thing is certain—no matter which of you wins, you have ensured this will be a wedding celebration like no other, little dragon."

 

* * *

 

There are tall torches stuck in the bare dirt in front of the long building and people light them now as everyone gathers around. One of the warriors offers a spear, and the chieftain takes it, using the point to draw a large, rough circle on the ground, delineating the boundary of the fight.

Tim breathes slowly in an attempt to steady the too-fast beat of his heart. If he panics now, he's doomed for sure, so it's best to remain as calm as possible. Instead, he loosens his belt, ignoring the hushed murmurs of those around him as he pulls off his kirtle and looks for some place to put it and his mantle. He still has his shift and hose, he's hardly bare—if he were, everyone would see the little squashy pad he has bound to his chest, the most he could do to mimic a woman's bosom.

"Here," Barbara says, somehow still right there at Tim's elbow. "I'll hold onto them until you've finished. It would be a shame to soil such fine garments."

"Who says I'll be dirtied at all? I just find the things too long to fight in," Tim says, trying to muster a flippant tone as he belts up his undershift to a length approximately the same as the tunics he normally wears. For once, the svelte and slender frame that's plagued him all his life works in his favor. Even without the extra, voluminous folds of the kirtle, no one doubts his sex. Taking a deep breath, he steps into the ring.

"What will you fight with, little dragon?" the chieftain asks. "One of my warriors will gladly lend you something for this entertainment."

Tim considers his options. While he's more than capable of fighting with a blade, that is not where his strength lies and in this battle, he needs every advantage he can claim. Glancing about, he grabs a spear from the mute warrior who guarded him on the voyage north. She is about his height and weight, which makes the spear's length and balance near-perfect. "I shall fight with this, if it is all the same."

"Very well then, you will both fight with spears, to keep things fair. You fight until one of you yields or cannot continue. Should my son triumph, we shall have a wedding. If the little dragon wins, she shall decide her own fate," the chieftain says in his rolling voice, then repeats it in his own language.

A hush falls over the assembled as the young man from earlier accepts a spear from an orange-haired warrior and steps into the ring, slowly circling around. Tim mirrors him, moving in the opposite direction, gauging his movements, watching for tells, for weakness. Barbara said this man was forced to stay behind because of wounds. If Tim can pinpoint where those wounds were, perhaps he can take advantage of them.

Impatient, the man lunges forward with his weapon. His entire body transmits his intentions before he carries them out, making it easy for Tim to knock the other spear aside with his own, and give his opponent a hard _thwack_ in the shin. He nearly sweeps the other man's legs out from under him while he's at it, but the point of the other spear comes rushing towards him, and Tim barely dances out of its path in time.

A hushed murmur rises around them, no doubt their audience expressing surprise that a pampered southern lady should be able to meet and parry the attack of a seasoned warrior. Tim knows the abilities of his stepmother's ladies, and most would be hard-pressed to lift a spear, let alone wield one.

The chieftain's son is tall and broad, with arms nearly a handspan longer than Tim's, legs twice that. His reach is longer as well, which makes it difficult to move in close. But just as much as he is aided by his size, it also hinders him. The bulk of muscle slows him down, allowing Tim to dart forward and under his opponent's reach, ramming the butt of his spear just under the other man's rib cage. It's an unpleasant place to take a blow, and Tim cannot help his vicious grin as the larger man nearly doubles over in pain.

He's quick to recover though, bringing his weapon up to deftly block Tim's when he tries to repeat the move. Tim spins around him, hoping to land a hit against the unprotected back, but the man follows and blocks again almost before Tim moves to strike.

The sudden and unexpected counter throws Tim off, and he stumbles slightly, leaving himself open to the butt end of his opponent's spear. Tim is able to dodge so that it amounts to no more than a glancing blow to his chin, but it's enough to cause him to accidentally bite the inside of his cheek, and blood floods his mouth.

It's not long before other man begins to look tired, and no wonder; he probably spent all day working the fields while Tim's had nothing to do but spin, sleep, and watch the waves for over two weeks on the journey north. His opponent may have strength, but Tim has speed and determination on his side. The chieftain said he would decide his own fate if he won, and while he doubts that includes being allowed to return home, it should at least be enough to spare him from having to share a bed with a stranger—a stranger who is sure to be angry once he realizes he has not wed the maid he thought.

A few more hits to soft, vulnerable places and a lucky blow allows him to disarm the other man, sending his spear flying. This time when Tim tries a sweep he succeeds, sending the larger man down with a earth-shaking _whump_. Tim springs forward immediately, spear lifted, about to strike the final, winning blow when he gets his first good look at his opponent's face. It's a handsome one, a face he would certainly think worth a second or third look under any other circumstances. Now, though, Tim's blood is singing from the excitement of the fight and no face is going to stop him, no matter how pretty.

Only then the man opens his eyes, eyes that catch the torchlight and cause Tim to freeze as his heart leaps to his throat. No wonder Barbara said there were those who thought this man god-touched, for he certainly looks it with one eye as blue as the sky on a clear summer's day, and the other a brilliant leaf green. "How—?"

But he took too long, stopped at a crucial moment and suddenly the man under him is bucking up, rolling them over and easily pinning Tim to the ground with his bulk. The remaining spear is pressed between them, horizontal across Tim's chest, impossible to extricate in their current position without significant difficulty. "Do you yield?" the warrior growls. His words are clear and without accent, though Tim can barely hear them over the beat of his heart, the pounding in his head, the roar in his ears.

"I…" He can't really think, is struggling to understand, because no one should have eyes like that. Not anymore. "I don't…"

" _Do you yield?_ " The warrior leans in further, pressing the weapon between them into Tim so hard that it will surely leave a bruise. He can't breathe, but he isn't certain if that's due to the weight on his chest or if it's simply because his lungs have forgotten how to work.

Releasing his grip on the spear, Tim blinks quickly, trying to stem the tide of tears that threatens to break free of him at any moment. "Yes," he manages at last. "Yes, Jason. I yield."

 

* * *

 

Jason doesn't recognize him. Which isn't surprising, really, as nearly eight years have passed since they last saw one another. Eight years since Tim's father had Jason sent to the monastery to be educated. Supposedly Lord Drake's patronage of the son of the local hedgewitch was a means of thanking Jason's mother for doing all that she could to ease Lady Janet's suffering during her long and ultimately fatal illness. Tim has always suspected the act was just as much a means to put an end to what Lord Drake deemed to be an unnatural friendship between his heir and an odd-eyed village child.

He was still small at the time, but that didn't stop Tim from feeling guilt over not trying harder to stop his father. Guilt that only worsened two years later when reports reached them of northern barbarians attacking the monastery, plundering its riches and killing all that lived there. Clearly, those reports were not entirely correct, since Jason sits beside him now, strong and fully grown, sharing a single cup with Tim as they drink a sweet and heady brew, sealing their marriage in the eyes of the heathen gods of the north.

As a child, Tim once proclaimed that were he given the choice of a thousand different courtly ladies and Jason, he would choose to wed Jason every time. Looking back, no wonder his father thought it best to send the commoner away from Fief Drake. After all, how could he foresee the chain of events that would give Tim the opportunity to fulfill that silly childhood dream? Smiling at the lucky hand dealt him by fate, Tim glances at his bridegroom through lowered lashes.

Unlike the rest of his new family who all busy themselves with feasting and talking, sharing stories and bursting into bits of song, Jason looks troubled as he keeps his eyes on the food before him. Not that he's bothered to touch it; Tim has yet to see anything pass his lips aside from the honey-ale required as part of the ceremony.

"Something wrong?" Tim asks, resting a hand on his arm.

Jason jerks as if stung, looking surprised by the question. "Just… I regret that you have been forced into this against your own wishes. You put up a good fight and were distracted when I bested you. I did not win fairly."

"If that were true, I would not have yielded to you. I _was_ distracted, which is the last thing a fighter should be in the middle of combat," Tim argues. "Yours was an honorable victory."

"Still. You have been dragged from your home and all you hold dear. I know other clans are different and think nothing of taking slaves, but it is not the way we normally do things here."

"My lord gave me to your father as tribute. Leaving Fief Drake may not have been my first choice, but I will honor the bargain struck," Tim says, choosing his words with care to avoid lying. From what he recalls and what he observes now, Jason has always put great stock in honesty and honor in both action and deed.

Jason's head whips around to stare down at him. "You are of Fief Drake?"

He still isn't sure if Jason's lack of recognition is due to Tim's current subterfuge or to some deeper underlying trouble. One of the first things he noticed about his friend once he had a moment to study him was an ugly scar right beside Jason's hairline, where the white hair grows. Head wounds can sometimes cause problems with memory, so this sudden interest in their shared birthplace brings him some hope for the former over the latter. "Yes. It is why your father calls me by that ridiculous sobriquet."

"What can you tell me of your brother, Lord Drake's eldest son?"

Tim's heart speeds up at this, and it takes everything he has not to spill the entire tale, never mind just who may overhear. "My father was called away some years back. His heir oversaw the running of the fief in his absence."

Ever one for words, Jason doesn't miss the ones Tim chooses to employ now. "He oversees it no longer? What happened?" he demands, taking Tim's hand and clasping it tightly in his own. "Is he—is he unwell?"

"As I am no longer there, I cannot say for certain who oversees it now," Tim says carefully. "In regards to how he fairs, I can report that Lord Drake's son is much happier than he has been in quite a number of years, having conquered all odds and recently wed his childhood confidant."

"What? That's ridiculous, Tim never had any kind of 'confidant,' not unless you count—"

"Yes, my husband?" Tim watches Jason's face through lowered lashes, willing him to understand.

"Come to think of it," Jason says slowly, "I don't recall his ever having a sister either. Barbara said your mother was your father's second wife, but I don't see how that can be, not with you being the age that you are."

"I never said Lady Dana was my mother, only that my father remarried. If your sister-in-law chose to misinterpret what I told her, that's her prerogative."

Jason stares down at him, odd eyes wide. His cheeks are pink in a way they weren't only minutes ago, leading Tim to think the cause something other than the heat of the room or the heady ale they've both been drinking this night. "I think I've had just about enough of this party."

 

* * *

 

Not long after Jason speaks a few quiet words in the chieftain's ear, Barbara and several other women extract Tim from behind the trestle table and lead him away to the next room, giggling between themselves as they take him to a set of doors that, when opened, reveal a small closet, the entirety of which is occupied by a bed with beautifully carved posts. "It is your wedding night," Barbara says kindly as Tim tentatively sits down on the fur-covered straw, "and your husband the son of the chief, so Bruce has given you both the use of his bed this night. You shan't have such privacy in the future, so I recommend you make the most of it. I know I most certainly did."

Apparently the other women either have some understanding of the language or the joke is a common one, as they all laugh. Then, before he can stop them, they begin divesting Tim of his various layers of clothing, batting away his interfering hands until he is left in just his shift. "Please," he begs, "I'm still chilly. Can't I keep this on?"

The women confer, Barbara saying something at length to the others. Finally, the blonde who's been tugging at his shift leaves off. "In light of your recent illness, you'll be allowed to keep it. For now," Barbara informs him.

He mumbles his thanks, quickly pulling up the woolen blanket as ribald laughter from the other end of the hall announces the arrival of the men with Jason. Oh lord. He hopes these people aren't barbaric enough to insist on bearing witness to the consummation; he knows that is the custom in some lands.

The mute warrior he now knows to be Jason's adoptive sister fastens a necklace of gold amulets around his neck. When he examines them, he sees each depicts a man and woman embracing. "To help ensure a fruitful marriage bed," Barbara explains with a wink, and he feels his cheeks heat for no good reason. It isn't as if this union will bear any children, after all.

The men's voices grow louder, and the blonde woman resettles the bridal crown on his head before she and the rest of the women step away from the bed. "Don't worry," Barbara says softly, squeezing Tim's hand one final time before rolling her chair out of the way. "He really is a sweet boy."

And then the men are there, Jason being pushed forward by his father and brother with such enthusiasm that Tim has to catch him by the arms before he falls into the bed face-first. "Alright there?" he checks. It hasn't escaped his notice that his friend's cheeks appear redder than they did earlier, and he wonders if Jason was encouraged to drink even more of the honey ale after Tim and the women left.

"Yes, I think so. Look, we don't—" But the men tug him away before he can finish whatever he was going to say, giving Jason much the same treatment as Tim was subjected to, until Jason is shortly left standing in just his trousers.

Jason glances back at his father, a pleading look on his face, but the man simply laughs and gives him a gentle push forward. "If you drag your feet too long, someone else might take your place," the chieftain chides, and this threat is apparently enough to erase any lingering qualms Jason may have, since he's quick to scramble into the bed.

The crowd, men and women alike, linger expectantly, and Tim pokes Jason in the side. "They aren't going to insist on watching, are they?" he hisses, giving voice to his earlier concern.

"No," Jason says, "we're not barbarians." He lifts the crown from Tim's head and passes it to the chieftain, who accepts the woven contraption with great pomp and dignity, then shows it to the others. As soon as the man's back is turned, Jason pulls the doors of the cupboard shut and latches them.

They're plunged into near-darkness, the cupboard's only illumination coming from two fist-sized holes at the top of the doors, a small oil lamp still unlit in its alcove above. Tim starts to speak, but is quickly silenced by a hand over his mouth. "Wait until they've gone back to the feast," Jason whispers. He follows this with something much louder in the barbarian tongue, prompting laughter from other side of the doors. A few minutes pass without further sounds, and then Jason moves onto his knees, looking out one of the holes. "Alright, we're safe," he says, sitting down once more before immediately rounding on Tim. "What the hell did you think you were doing, letting yourself be captured?!"

"I thought I was buying my people enough time to escape to some other keep, one that wasn't pillaged to the point of exhaustion," Tim snaps. "We didn't have much left in terms of food, and I was the only man left who even knew the right end of a proper weapon."

"And the dress?"

"I hoped the bar—the raiders would underestimate me. I had planned to escape before it got this far, but your sister is very good at guard duty. Now, your turn," Tim snaps. "How are you even _alive_? We'd heard everyone at the monastery was slaughtered."

"I was was rounded up with the other boys, but I remembered what your father's armsmaster taught us and managed to escape, though not unscathed," Jason says, and in the gloom, Tim sees him touch the scar at his hairline. "Things are a bit fuzzy after that, but I think I hid in a cupboard. At least, that's where Bruce says he found me."

"But why keep you and kill all the others?"

"Bruce's clan didn't get there until a day or two later, after the raiders who attacked had already left," Jason says. "We always look for survivors if we come across someone else's mess. We don't… It's not right, to take everything a person has and then kill them when there's nothing left. If you'd been honest and explained Fief Drake was tapped dry, Bruce would have taken the raiding party elsewhere."

Tim tries to muster some sort of regret at the fact that he sacrificed his position for nothing, but he just can't find it in him. "Too late now. Anyway, if I'd done that, I'd never have seen you again." Feeling around, he finds Jason's hand in the dim light and squeezes it.

Beside him, Jason shivers. "Oh, I. Meant to say before. You needn't—I mean, that is. You'll have to be, uh. Vocal. Eventually. Or else they won't believe we're actually… Well."

"Is that so?" He rolls over so he's straddling one of Jason's massive thighs, practically plastered against his unlikely spouse. "And why would you assume that I won't be the one making _you_ shout?" he purrs, moving his free hand up Jason's bare chest, enjoying the feel of the muscles there. "I know it's been some time, but in case you've forgotten, I'm not _actually_ a woman."

"I didn't—I didn't think you'd want—" Jason stops and swallows. "You don't have to."

"Jason, my father sent you to a _monastery_ because he caught me innocently kissing you. Unless you're a drastically different person now than you were eight years ago, my feelings haven't changed," Tim says, tugging his hand free so that he can lean backwards and unwind the bandage holding his false bosom in place under his one remaining piece of clothing before pulling off his shift. The scant light catches the golden tokens of the necklace as they slip through the neck of the garment and settle against bare skin. "The moment I realized who you were, I was in this wholeheartedly."

"Do you mean to say you let me win that fight?" Jason demands, cheeks still stained a delicious shade of red.

"Well, I don't know about _letting_ you win. It was more a case of being rather startled by the fact that my opponent was a dead man. But I might have let you win, had you not taken advantage of my distraction." Tim leans in once more, rocking against the other man's leg as his own knee slides forward to nestle itself right up against the rather obvious bulge in Jason's trousers. "Don't tell me you aren't interested in trying to take advantage of me a second time. We both know you aren't that good of a liar."

Large hands settle on Tim's hips and suddenly there's a mouth on his, hot and insistent and much, much nicer than that chaste kiss so long ago.

 

* * *

 

"You know," Jason comments sometime later, sounding more than a little breathless. "Bruce will be rather disappointed. He's rather fond of children, and I'm certain this entire thing was a ploy on his part to acquire more grandchildren."

Nestled against Jason's back, Tim hums thoughtfully as he traces patterns on the bare skin there. "It's too bad your wife will prove tragically infertile. A cruel defect of birth, no matter how many times you join with her, she'll never bear a child."

Jason snorts. "If all our joinings are like that one, we wouldn't have a child even if you _were_ properly equipped."

"Hey," Tim says, swatting him in the shoulder. "I certainly didn't hear _you_ complaining."

"No," Jason says, turning over and catching Tim's hands in his own. "And you never will."

**Author's Note:**

> [I have a tumblr!](http://themandylion.tumblr.com/) Come visit if you want ridiculous AU headcanons, rants about the English language (and/or educational publishing), plague fangirling, adorable baby bats, and veeeeery occasional fanart.


End file.
